


Negotiations

by Andropedia



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andropedia/pseuds/Andropedia





	Negotiations

“Ey, Boss. Should I call for a healer?” the goblin standing guard in front of the warchief’s tent asks after hurriedly clicking his heals once the Dark Lady steps through the opening. Any other day, any other goblin really, Sylvanas would immediately threatened his life, just for addressing her that way. But she knows Nuzak for quite some time now, hand picked by the dark rangers to be part of the all horde guard to represent it’s unity. And even if she wouldn’t admit it, she does enjoy the contrast between his casual manner and the always uptight orks or the at times comically obsequious Forsaken guards. Uncouth, maybe, but honest and over all things loyal.

At his comment the tall woman turns towards him, raising an eyebrow, regarding him with a questioning look.

 

“And why would that be?” she asks almost amused, but maintains a stern expression nonetheless.

 

“Your neck. Boss.” the goblin points directly at her, tilting his head with a barely visible grin. “You have been wounded.”

 

Sylvanas’ hand immediately springs to crook of her neck, covering the spot in question and feeling it’s surface. There is no real pain, but she can make out the difference in the tissue. It’s firmer and spotted with little soft knots of blood. Apparently she _has_ been wounded, unless….

 

“I’ll see to it on my way to the negotiations. Your alertness is exemplary.” She offers solemnly, and dismisses him with a nod of her head.

 

Sylvanas is halfway to Liadrin’s tent, meticulously avoiding all and every remotely foreseeable encounter with one of her advisers or the other Horde leaders – The blood elf is the only one she trusts to not immediately take a spin at the rumor mill. And she is not going to take any chances with a random healer from the infirmary. – when she eventually fails.

 

“Warchief!” Lor'themar’s cheery voice breaks her from her trail of thought, and she barely manages to not cringe, feeling caught nonetheless.

 

“Sylvanas.” he follows up a little less loud, to not undermine her authority, when he almost caught up to her, since she didn’t actually slow down when he first greeted her.

 

“Yes, Lord Theron.” the elf woman replies curtly, turns around, willing her face into the most forbidding expression she can muster, trying her best to keep him at arms length.

 

“A word.” he says unfazed by her reaction, steps closer. “There is something that needs addressing before we proceed with the negotiations.”

 

“What is it?” Sylvanas replies sharply, pointedly hiding this side of her neck from him.

 

“The scouts report suspicious activity in the south. The Kul’Tiran’s considerably reduced their presence, and….” He informs her, and to her great dismay quickly aligns himself with her on the side he’s not supposed to see.

 

“And?” the warchief replies sullenly, and one time to many runs her hand over the spot on her neck, inadvertently bringing his attention to it.

 

“What happened to your…. _Oh_.” a knowing smile settles on his face. “I didn’t know you were doing _that_.”

 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Sylvanas dismisses his insinuation.

“Are you even…?” he follows up, completely ignoring her denial. “I thought you couldn’t….”

 

“No, I’m not. And if I were it would most certainly not be of your concern _Regent Lord_.” She hisses. Although she knows asserting her authority practically means admitting he is right.

 

“I’m happy for you.” he offers, not needling her any further. “Just be careful. You know, to not offer our enemies a vulnerability to attack.”

 

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Sylvanas assures with a certain seriousness in her tone.

 

“ _Ah_.” Lor'themar replies, apparently taking her bait. “Make sure to not get attached then.” he tilts his head, narrows his eye at her, then only nods.

 

“Keep quiet about the report for now. I’ll bring it up at an appropriate time.” the tall woman instructs, prompting him to nod acknowledging.

 

They are halfway to the negotiations table and not Liadrin’s tent, so she makes another excuse about maybe wearing a more regal armor and turns around again, leaving Lor’themar to go ahead alone. She isn’t sure whether he buys it this time or not. Regardless, she is not going to sit on the negotiation table with a dark blue hickey on her neck. She is the warchief after all.

 

Finally, she thinks once she arrives at the tent, but when she pulls aside the fabric to enter, she is greeted, not by the matriarch, but by the spy Valeera, who apparently was just about to leave herself. The warchief narrows her eyes at the unsuspected guest, for a brief moment considering her vague allegiances. The blonde returns her questioning look, before something like a little panic starts to settle on her expression as well, so subtle one could easily miss it, but Sylvanas knows her kind well.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks sharply, pointedly blocks the other woman’s path.

 

“I was going to visit Lady Liadrin for old time’s sake. But she must be gone to attend the negotiations already.” the slightly shorter elf offers somewhat confidently.

 

The warchief hums more annoyed then anything, then sighs. “Of course she is.”

 

“Something important?” the spy inquires very casually. – Occupational disease.

 

“No, I was going to ask her to hea….” _Why is she even talking to her._

 

“Didn’t catch that.” Valeera follows up, but understandably doesn’t receive an answer.

 

“Get lost, before I have you arrested for spying on one of our leaders.” Sylvanas threatens, albeit weakly. Both of them are well aware of the terms of this particular gathering.

 

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience my presence might cause.” the shorter elf replies smoothly. “Allow me to escort you to the gathering.”

 

Sylvanas briefly considers her options, she could tell her off, assert her authority again, but then only sighs and gestures for the other elf to lead the way.

 

“So, warchief Windrunner. Thinks look pretty cozy currently. Any plans for after the war? Maybe settling down. A cabin in the woods, an army of forsaken to keep you company. A certain undead husband...” Valeera inquires cheerfully. Her comment is met with a number of very undignified noises from the undead elf behind her, that suddenly looks vaguely disgusted.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply….” the blonde spy begins but is cut off by the other woman.

 

“Yes you did. Just keep your commentary to yourself.” Sylvanas huffs, her eyes now glowing bright red with thinly veiled anger.

 

“So are not going to tell me who gave you that hickey, _Huh_?” Valeera replies cheekily, and barely manages to catch the dagger flying at her face. “Nice throw!”

 

In the end the warchief sends Valeera ahead too, and manages to steal away and at least find an arcanist to cast an illusion over the offending patch of skin, accompanied by a sufficient amount of death threats if she told anyone about their arrangement, and lacing her pockets with gold for good measure.

 

The warchief is fashionable late at the negotiation table though, and is already impatiently awaited by the other horde and alliance leaders alike. After a round of half-hearted greetings they take their places at the large round table, solemnly placing their weapons in front of them as a gesture of peace.

 

The all the other attendees’, except for one’s, bewilderment Lor’themar breaks into hearty laughter when the Lord Admiral of Kul’Tiras finally removes her cowl, with a slightly pained expression on her face revealing a pretty conspicuous hickey just below her jawline.

 

_Not going to be a problem at all._

 

 

 

 


End file.
